by Jack Higgins
Without speaking, they turned and moved on towards the encampment. There were three wickiups, skin tents stretched tightly over a frame of sticks, grouped round a blazing fire. Three or four men crouched beside it singing, one of them beating a drum, while the women prepared the evening meal.
Several children rushed forward when they saw Rose, but stopped shyly. She laughed. 'They are unsure with strangers.'
She moved towards them and the children crowded round, wreathed in smiles. She spoke to them in Apache, then beckoned to Dillinger. 'There is someone I want you to meet.'
She led the way to the largest wickiup. As they approached, the skin slap was thrown back. The man who emerged looked incredibly frail. He wore buckskin leggings, breech-clout and blue flannel shirt, a band of the same material binding the long grey hair.
The face was his most outstanding feature. Straight-nosed, thin-lipped, with a skin the colour of parchment, there was nothing weak here, only strength, intelligence and understanding. It could have been the face of a saint or a great scholar. By any standards he looked like a remarkable man.
Rose bowed her head formally, then kissed him on each cheek. She turned to Dillinger. 'This is my good friend, Nachita - last chief of the Chiricahuas.'
Dillinger put out his hands in formal greeting and felt them gripped in bands of steel. The old man spoke in surprisingly good English, the sound like a dark wind in the forest at evening.
'You are Jordan, Rivera's new man.'
'That's right,' Dillinger said.
Nachita kept hold of his hands and something moved in his eyes like a shadow across the sky. The old man released his grip and Dillinger turned away, looking out across the camp.
'This is quite a place.'
Behind him, Nachita picked up a dead stick and snapped it sharply, simulating the distinctive click of a gun being cocked. Dillinger reached for the gun under his arm, turned crouching, the Colt in his hand as if by magic.
Nachita smiled, turned and went back into his wickiup. His lesson was for Rose. Here was a man who handled guns as if they were his hands.
Dillinger found Rose watching him, her face serious, the firelight flickering across it. He laughed awkwardly and put the gun away.
'He certainly has a sense of humour,' Dillinger said.
There was a pause as she looked at him steadily and then she said, 'We must go back to the hotel. Supper will be ready.'
Dillinger took her arm as they left the camp. 'How old is he?'
'No one can be sure, but he rode with Victorio and Geronimo, that much is certain.'
'He must have been a great warrior.'
They paused on a little hill beside the ruined adobe wall and Rose said, 'In 1881 Old Nana raided into Arizona with fifteen braves. He was then aged eighty. Nachita was one of the braves. In less than two months they covered a thousand miles, defeated the Americans eight times and returned to Mexico safely, despite the fact that more than a thousand soldiers and hundreds of civilians were after them. That is the kind of warrior Nachita was.'
'Yet in the end the Apache were defeated, as they were bound to be.'
'To continue fighting when defeat is inevitable, this requires the greatest courage of all,' she said simply.
Funny she should say that. He'd imagined himself one day coming into a bank he'd cased but not too well and finding himself in a trap, every teller a G-man waiting with a gun instead of a wad of bills. He'd imagined himself backing out of the bank, shooting machine guns from both hips, knocking out the G-men like ducks in a gallery. He'd walked out of three movies where he could tell that the gangster was going to get killed in the end.
After supper Dillinger went into the bar and joined Fallon, who was sitting with Chavasse at a small table in the corner. Fallon produced a pack of cards from his pocket and shuffled them expertly.
'How about joining us for a hand of poker?'
'Suits me.' Dillinger pulled forward a chair and grinned at the Frenchman. 'Shouldn't you be working?'
Rose arrived, carrying bottles of beer and glasses on a tray. 'My manager is permitted to mingle with special guests,' she said.
'As always, your devoted slave,' Chavasse said dramatically, grabbing her hand and kissing it with pretended passion.
She ruffled his hair and disappeared into the kitchen.
Dillinger felt a sting of jealousy. He said, 'She just introduced me to old Nachita. Quite a guy.'
Chavasse said, 'Everything that's best in a great people. He taught me more than anyone else about the Apache.'
'Fallon tells me you're quite an expert on the subject.'
The Frenchman shrugged. 'I studied anthropology at the Sorbonne. I decided to do my field work for my thesis as far away from home as I could get. I meant to stay six months. But where in Paris could I get a job like this?' He laughed. 'And such a nice boss.'
Dillinger felt the sting again, wondered if there was some kind of a relationship between the Frenchman and Rose. She had ruffled his hair as if it was nothing.
When they had finished their beer Dillinger took some of Rivera's pesos from his pocket and slapped them on the table. 'How about another round?' he said to Fallon.
'With pleasure,' the old man replied.
Dillinger lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. 'This man we met on the road today, the one they call Diablo? Juan Ortiz. What do you make of him?'
'I honestly don't know. When he was younger, he had a bad reputation. They say he killed at least three men. Knife fights, things like that. There isn't much law in the mountains. I think in the old days he'd have made a name for himself, but that was before the Jesuits at Nacozari got their hands on him.'
'And you really think he's changed?'
'What was your impression?'
Dillinger frowned, thinking about it. 'I got the feeling he was trying to provoke Rivera in some strange way. It was almost as if he was inviting him to lose control.'
'But why would he do that?' Chavasse asked.
'I don't know. Maybe to give him the excuse to strike back.'
'This is a country saturated in blood. First the Aztecs, then the conquistadores. In four hundred years, nothing but slaughter.'
'Yet you stay.'
'I stay.'
As Fallon returned with the beer, Dillinger spied Rivera sitting down at a small table. He wore clean clothes and smoked one of his usual cigarillos. When he rapped on the table with his cane, Chavasse got up and went across. He listened to what Rivera had to say and went into the kitchen. He returned with a tray containing a bottle of champagne and a glass. He placed them in front of Rivera and came back to the others.
'Champagne?' Dillinger said blankly. 'Here?'
'Kept especially for Lord God Almighty,' Chavasse explained. 'One of his favourite ways of publicly indicating the gap between himself and others.'
At that moment Rojas swaggered into the bar, looking as if he'd been drinking. When he saw Rivera he pulled off his hat and bowed respectfully. Rivera called him over and murmured something to him. Rojas nodded and after a moment crossed to the bar and hammered on it.
'What about some service here?'
Before Chavasse could get up, Rose appeared from the kitchen. She walked round the counter and stood facing him, hands on hips. 'In the first place lower your voice. In the second take that thing off and hang it in the hall with the others.' She pointed to the revolver strapped to his waist.
Rojas turned meekly and went outside. He came back without the revolver and she placed a bottle of tequila and a glass on the counter.
Rojas filled his glass with tequila and swallowed it down, the spirit slopping out of the corners of his mouth. Dillinger looked at Rivera, who returned his gaze coolly, filled his glass with champagne and sipped a little.
Dillinger drank some of the lukewarm beer and put the glass down firmly. 'How much is that champagne?'
'Twenty-five pesos a bottle,' Chavasse said.
Dillinger, pulled off his right boot
and extracted a folded bank note from under the inner sole. He pulled the boot back on and flicked the note across to the Frenchman.
'Twenty dollars American. Will that do?'
'I should imagine so.'
'Then get a bottle and glasses. Ask Rose to join us.'
Chavasse looked at Rivera and grinned, pushed back his chair and went into the kitchen.
'There goes my mad money,' Dillinger said ruefully.
Chavasse hurried back, followed by Rose with the champagne and glasses on a tray. Suddenly everyone seemed to be laughing and there was an atmosphere of infectious gaiety. Dillinger glanced at Rivera, the Mexican returned his gaze.
'To the provider must go the honour of opening it,' Fallon said.
As Dillinger reached out, a shadow fell across the table. Rojas pushed Chavasse out of the way and wrapped a huge hand about the bottle. 'I always wanted to try this stuff.'
Dillinger grabbed the neck of the bottle firmly. 'Then go and buy your own.'
'Why should I, Yankee, when you are here to provide it for me?'
The Mexican tried to lift the bottle from the table. Dillinger exerted all his strength to keep it there. Rojas grabbed the edge of the table and tried to turn it over and Dillinger leaned his weight against it.
As Dillinger half turned in his chair, he had a glimpse of Rivera still sitting calmly on the other side of the room sipping champagne, only now there was a smile on his face and Dillinger knew that the whole thing had been arranged. Rojas imagining he was going to teach him his place on the patron's orders. Rivera intent on discovering just how good he was.
Rose took Rojas by the arm and tried to pull him away. 'Please,' she said. 'No fighting in my place.'
Rojas, his hand still on the champagne bottle, turned toward Rose and spat in her face.
Chavasse was livid. All Dillinger's repressed anger boiled up. A hard ball of fury rose in his throat, choking him. With a swift movement, he leaned back, removing his weight from the table and Rojas lost his balance, releasing his grip on the bottle as he sprawled on his hands and knees. Dillinger smashed the bottle across the back of the bull neck and stood up.
The others moved out of the way hurriedly. Rojas shook his head several times and started to get up. Dillinger snatched up his chair and smashed it across the great head and shoulders once, splintering it like matchwood.
Rose was crying, wiping her face.
Rojas shook his head, wiping blood from his face casually. He got to his feet, his eyes never leaving Dillinger.
He stood there swaying, apparently half out on his feet, and Dillinger moved in fast. Rojas took a quick step backwards, then smashed his bull fist savagely into Dillinger's face.
Dillinger lay on the floor for a moment, his head singing from the force of the blow. Rivera laughed and as Dillinger started to his feet, Rojas delivered a powerful blow to his stomach and hit him again on the cheek, splitting the flesh to the bone.
Rojas came in fast, boot raised to stamp down on the unprotected face. Dillinger grabbed for the foot and twisted, and Rojas fell heavily across him. They rolled over and over, and as they crashed against the wall, Dillinger pulled himself on top. He reached for Rojas's throat and was suddenly thrown backwards.
As Dillinger scrambled to his feet, Rojas rose to meet him. Dillinger feinted with his left and smashed his right fist against the Mexican's mouth, splitting the lips so that blood spurted. He moved out of range, then feinted again and delivered the same terrible blow. As he stepped back, his foot slipped and Rojas got home a stunning punch to the forehead that sent Dillinger staggering back against the open window to the boardwalk outside and he almost went over the low sill. As he straightened up, Rojas lurched forward again. Dillinger ducked, twisted a shoulder inwards and sent the Mexican over his hip through the open window in a savage cross-buttock.
Dillinger scrambled across the sill, almost losing his balance, and arrived on the boardwalk as Rojas rose to his feet. Dillinger, enjoying the best fight he'd had since he was a kid, hit him with everything he had, full in the face, and Rojas went backwards into the street.
For a little while he lay there and Dillinger hung on to one of the posts that supported the porch. Slowly, the Mexican got to his feet. He swayed in the lamplight, his face a mask of blood, eyes burning with hate, and then his hand went round to the back of his belt. As he came forward, a knife gleamed dully.
Behind Rojas, old Nachita appeared from the darkness like a ghost. His hand moved in a single smooth motion and a knife thudded into the boardwalk at Dillinger's feet.
There was a mist before Dillinger's eyes and he felt as if he had little strength left in him. He picked up the knife and went toward Rojas, the knife held out in front of him.
He heard a voice say, his own voice like that of a stranger, 'Come on, you bastard. If that's the way you want it.'
Rojas, who had been prepared to fight knife to hands not knife to knife, stumbled away into the darkness.
Dillinger swung round, the power in him like a white-hot flame. They were all there on the boardwalk, looking at him strangely in the lamplight, fear on their faces. Rivera stood at the top of the steps and Dillinger went forward, the knife extended.
Rivera staggered back, almost losing his balance, and hurried into the hotel. Dillinger was aware of a grip of steel on his arm. Old Nachita took the knife from him, supporting him at the same time, and Rose appeared on the other side.
She was still crying and Dillinger couldn't understand why. As they led him forward, he frowned, desperately trying to concentrate, and then as they reached his room, Fallon appeared and got the door open, his face ablaze with excitement.
'Jesus, Johnny, I never seed anything like that in my whole damn life. You really took that big ox apart.'
'Johnny?' It was Rose's voice. 'I thought your name was Harry. Who are you?'
He turned to her voice, smiling foolishly, and tried to speak and then the lamp seemed to revolve into a spinning ball that grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the darkness.
This time J. Edgar Hoover had only one operative standing in front of his desk. He'd just finished reading the man's report.
'You've got a pretty good fix on him.
The man said, 'He didn't do the California job or the Chicago job. The woman we picked up in Kansas swore she'd seen a white Chevvy convertible in Doc's barn. If Doc didn't take it to Florida, maybe Dillinger took it south.'
'You think it's Mexico.'
'Mr Hoover, if there was this scale manhunt on for me, I'd get out of the country.'
'OK. Send a wire to Mexico City. Ask them to query the chiefs of police in all northern provinces if a white Chevrolet convertible has been seen driven by an American. Ask them to keep it confidential. Just say the car is stolen and the man who's driving it is probably armed and dangerous.'
8
The desert was a dun-coloured haze reaching toward the mountains, the canyons still dark with shadow. It was the best hour of the day, the air cool and fresh before the sun started to draw the heat out of the barren earth.
Dillinger, behind the wheel of the Chevrolet, Fallon beside him, seemed to ache in every limb. He drove slowly over the rough trail to spare himself and because Rose was cantering along beside them on a bay horse.
'How do you feel?' Rose asked.
'I guess I'm not very handsome today.' The right side of his face was disfigured by a large purple bruise.
'Do you think it was worth it?'
He shrugged. 'Is anything?'
She said to Fallon, 'Do you think he tries to commit suicide often?'
'Only on his bad days,' the old man replied.
The trail wound its way between a forest of great tapering pillars of rock and entered a narrow canyon. In the centre it widened into a saucer-shaped bowl, then narrowed again before emerging once more into the plain.
At this point the track branched off in two directions and Rose halted. 'There is where I leave you. I'm goi
ng straight to the mine. Father Tomas is staying at the village for a few days and I promised to take him some medicine. Perhaps I'll see you later?'
Dillinger switched off the motor. 'I think maybe we should have a talk first.'
She sat there looking down at him and then nodded. 'All right.'
The horse ambled forward. Dillinger got out of the car and walked beside her, a hand on a stirrup. 'I hope you don't think I - well, you know, was too pushy last night.'
'As long as you understand that a kiss is not necessarily a promise of better things to come.'
'I'm used to, well, a different kind of woman.'
'You're blushing.'
'I don't blush,' Dillinger said sharply.
'Perhaps it is the sun,' she smiled. 'I think I'd better tell you something.'
He felt that jealous pang again. He was certain she was going to tell him that the Frenchman and she were involved.
'Harry - or Johnny - whatever your real name is -' She looked over at Fallon to make sure he was out of earshot. 'I was in the telegraph office first thing this morning. There's a police alarm out for a white Chevrolet.'
'From Santos or Hernandez?'
'To them, from the FBI.'
'Damn. Who knows about this?'
'The telegrapher. He hasn't seen your car. But he is paid by Rivera to tell him everything that comes in over the wire.'
'Are there police in town?'
'Two. Both old. They won't see the message if Rivera doesn't want them to. Why are they looking for you?'
'Not me. My car. I must have lent it to a bootlegger.'
'You are very charming when you lie.' She patted her whinnying horse's neck. 'Till later then. Perhaps I can put something on that poor face of yours.'
'What?'
'My hand,' she said, cantering away.
Half an hour later the white convertible came over a rise and the track dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below them stood a brown-stone hacienda built in the old colonial style.
The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with well-kept fences around a large paddock. A worker in riding boots and faded Levis was saddling a grey mare. He turned and looked up at them, shading his eyes with one hand, then went towards the house.